IN ETHEL'S ROOM.

To those who knew Caspar Brooke best, it seemed ridiculously impossible that he should have been accused of any act of violence. But the accusation was made with so much circumstantial detail that no course seemed open to the police but to arrest him with as little delay as possible. And before the ill-fated wedding party had been dispersed, before Miss Brooke could hurry home, and long before Lesley suspected the blow that was in store for her, he had been taken by two policemen in plain clothes to the Bow Street Police station.

The full extent of the misfortune did not burst upon Doctor Sophy all at once. When she left the church the accusation was not publicly known, and as she walked home she reflected on the account that she must give to her brother of the extraordinary events of the day. She wished he had been present, and wondered why he had shirked the invitation which had been sent him by Ethel. He was not usually out of bed at this hour, but she resolved to go to his room and tell him the story at once, for, though he had never cared much for poor Oliver Trent, he had always been fond of Ethel. Lesley had gone to the Kenyons' house at Maurice's earnest request, and might not be back for some time.

She opened the door with her latch-key, and, to her great surprise, was confronted at once by Sarah, her face swollen, and her eyes red with weeping.

"Sarah! why—have you heard the dreadful news already?" said Miss Brooke.

"Have you heard it, is more the question, I'm thinking?" said Sarah, grimly.

"Of course you mean—about poor Mr. Trent?"

"More than that, ma'am. However, here's a letter from master to you, and that'll tell you more than I can do." And Sarah, handed a note to her mistress, and retired to the back of the hall, sniffing audibly.

Miss Brooke walked into the dining-room and opened the note. Caspar had gone out, she gathered from the fact of his having written to her at all: perhaps he had heard of Oliver Trent's death, and had gone to offer his services to Maurice, or to assist in discovering the murderer. So she thought to herself; and then she began to read the note.

In another minute Sarah heard a strange, muffled cry; and running into the room found that Miss Brooke had sunk down on the sofa, and was trembling in every limb. Her brother's letter was crushed within her hand.

"What does it mean, Sarah?—what does it mean?" she stammered, with a face so white and eyes so terror-stricken that Sarah took her to task at once.

"It means a great, big lie, ma'am, that's all it means. Why, you ain't going to be put about by that, I hope, when master himself says—as he said to me—that he'd be home afore night! I'm ashamed of you, looking as pale as you do, and you a doctor and all!"

"Did he say to you he would be home before night?" said Miss Brooke collecting herself a little, but still looking very white.

Sarah took a step nearer to her, and spoke in a low voice. "Nobody else in the house knows where he's gone," she said, "but I know, for master called me himself, and told me what they wanted him for. It was two men in plain clothes, and there was a cab outside and a p'liceman on the box. 'Of course it's all a mistake, Sarah,' he said to me, as light-hearted as you please, 'and don't let Miss Lesley or your Missus be anxious. I dare say I shall be back in an hour or two.' And then he asked the men if he might write a note, and they let him, though they read it as he wrote, the nasty wretches!"—and Sarah snorted contemptuously, while she wiped away a tear from her left eye with her apron.

"But it is so extraordinary—so ridiculous!" said Miss Brooke. And then, with a little more color in her face, she read her brother's letter over again.

It consisted only of these words—

"Take care of Lesley! As if she wanted taking care of!" said Miss Brooke, with sudden energy. "Sarah, go over at once to Mr. Kenyon's, and tell Miss Lesley to come home. She can't stay there while this is going on. It isn't decent."

Sarah was rather glad to execute this order. She was of opinion that Miss Lesley needed to be taken down a bit, and that this was the way in which the Lord saw fit to do it. And it never occurred to Miss Brooke to caution the woman against startling Lesley or hurting her feelings. She had been startled certainly, and almost overcome; but she belonged to that class of middle-aged women who think that their emotions must necessarily be stronger than those of young people, because they are older and understand what sorrow means, whereas the reverse is usually the case. Besides, Miss Brooke quite underrated the warmth of Lesley's attachment to her father, and was not prepared to see her experience anything but shallow and commonplace regret.

So Sarah went to the house opposite and knocked at the door. She had to knock twice before the door was opened, for the whole household was out of joint. The maids were desperately clearing away all signs of festivity—flowers, wedding-cake, the charming little breakfast that had been prepared for the guests—everything that told of wedding preparation, and had now such a ghastly look. Under Mrs. Durant's direction the servants were endeavoring to restore to the rooms their wonted appearance. Ethel's trunks had been piled into an empty room: she would not want her trousseau now, poor child. The uncle from the country was pacing up and down the deserted drawing-room; the aunt was fussing about Ethel's dressing-room, nervously folding up articles of clothing and putting away trifles. All the blinds were down, as if for a funeral. And in Ethel's own room, the girl lay on her bed, white and rigid as a corpse, with half-shut eyes that did not seem to see, and fingers so tightly closed that the nails almost ran into her soft palms. Since she had been laid there she had not spoken; no one could quite tell whether she were conscious or not; but Lesley, who sat beside her, and sometimes laid her cheek softly against the desolate young bride's cold face, or kissed the ashen-grey lips, divined by instinct that she was not unconscious although stunned by the force of the blow—that she was thinking, thinking, thinking all the time—thinking of her lost lover, of her lost happiness, and beating herself passionately against the wall of darkness which had arisen between her and the future that she had planned for herself and Oliver.

Sarah asked at once for Miss Lesley Brooke, and Mrs. Durant came out of the dining-room to speak to the messenger.

"Is Miss Brooke wanted very particularly?" she asked. "Miss Kenyon will not have anyone else with her."

"I think I must speak to Miss Lesley, ma'am; my mistress said I must," said Sarah, primly. Then, forgetting her loyalty to her employers in her desire to be communicative, she went on—"Maybe you haven't heard what's happened, ma'am. Mr. Brooke's been taken up on the charge of murder——"

This was not strictly true, but it was the way in which Sarah read the facts.

"And Miss Brooke says Miss Lesley must come home, as it is not proper for her to stay."

The horror depicted on Mrs. Durant's face was quite as great as Sarah had anticipated, and even more so. For Mrs. Durant, a conventional and narrow-minded woman, did not know enough of Caspar Brooke's character to feel any indignation at the accusation: indeed, she was the sort of woman who was likely to put a vulgar construction upon his motives, and regard it as probable that he had quarreled with Oliver for not wishing to marry Lesley instead of Ethel Kenyon. And she at once grasped the situation. Under the circumstances—if Caspar Brooke had killed Ethel's lover—it was most improper that Caspar Brooke's daughter should be staying in the house.

"Of course!" she said, with a shocked face. "Miss Lesley Brooke must go at once—naturally. How very terrible! I am much obliged to Miss Brooke for sending—as Ethel's chaperon I couldn't undertake——I'll go upstairs and send her down to you."

Sarah was left in the hall, while Mrs. Durant went upstairs. But after a time the lady came down with a troubled air.

"I can't get her to come," she said. "You must go up yourself, Sarah, and speak to her. She will come into the dressing-room, she says, for a minute, but she cannot leave Miss Kenyon for a longer time. You must tell her quietly what has happened, and then she will no doubt see the advisability of going away."

Sarah went upstairs, therefore, and entered the dressing-room, where the old aunt was still busy; and in a minute or two Lesley appeared.

"What is it?" she said, briefly.

"Your aunt sent me to say you must come home at once, miss."

"I cannot come just yet: Miss Kenyon wishes me to stay with her," said Lesley, with dignity.

"You'd better come, Miss Lesley. I don't want to tell you the dreadful news just now: you'd better hear it at home. Then you'll be glad you came. It's your pa, miss."

"My father! Oh, Sarah, what do you mean? Is he ill? is he dead? What is it?"

"He's been arrested, miss, for killing Mr. Trent."

Sarah spoke in a whisper, but it seemed to her hearers as if she had shouted the words at the top of her voice. Mrs. Durant pressed her hands together and uttered a little scream. Lesley turned deadly white, and laid one hand on the back of a chair, as if for support. And the old aunt immediately ran into the inner room, and burst into tears over Ethel's almost inanimate form, bewailing her, and calling her a poor, injured, heartbroken girl, until Ethel opened her great dark eyes, and fixed them upon the aged, distorted face with a questioning look.

"Lesley!" she breathed. "I want Lesley."

"Oh, my dearest child, you must do without Lesley now. It is not fit that she should come to you."

But Ethel's lips again formed the same sounds: "I want Lesley." And the old lady continued—

"She must not come, dear: you cannot see Lesley Brooke again. It is her father who has done this terrible thing—blighted your life—destroyed your happiness——"

And so she would have babbled on had not Ethel all at once raised herself in her bed, with white face and flaming eyes, and called in tones as clear and resonant as ever—

"Lesley! Lesley! come back!"

And then the old aunt was silent: silent and amazed.

From the next room Lesley came, softly and swiftly as was her wont. Her face was pale, but her eyes and lips were steady. She went straight to Ethel; was at once encircled by the girl's arms, and drew Ethel's head down upon her shoulder.

"Shall I go?" she whispered in Ethel's ear.

"No, no; don't leave me."

"You know what they say? Can you trust my father?"

"I trust you both. Stay with me."

Lesley raised her head and looked back at the little group of meddlesome women who had tried to tear her from her friend's side. At the look they disappeared. They dared not say another word after meeting the rebuke conveyed in Lesley's pale, set face and resolute eyes. They closed the door behind them, and left the two girls alone.

For a long time neither spoke. Ethel seemed to have relapsed once more into a semi-unconscious state. Lesley sat motionless, pillowing her friend's head against her shoulder, and stroking one of her hands with her own. Now and then hot tears welled over and dropped upon Ethel's dark, curly head, but Lesley did not try to wipe them away. She scarcely knew that she was crying: she was only aware of a great weight of trouble that had come upon her—trouble that seemed to include in its effects all that she held most dear. Trouble not only to her friend, but to her father, her mother, her lover. Not a shadow of doubt as to her father's innocence rested upon her mind: there was no perplexity, no shame—only sorrow and anxiety. Not many women could have borne the strain of utter silence with such a burden laid on them to bear. But to Lesley, even in that hour, Ethel's trouble was greater than her own.

An hour must have passed away before Ethel murmured,

"Lesley—are you there?"

"Yes, I am with you, darling: I am here."

"You are crying."

"I am crying for you, Ethel, dear."

For the first time, Ethel's hand answered to her pressure. After a little silence, she spoke again—

"I wish I could die—too."

"My poor little Ethel."

"I suppose there is no chance of that. People—like me—don't die. They only suffer—and suffer—and break their hearts—and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you were kind to me, you would give me something to make me die."

She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Lesley's bosom. "Oh, why must he go—without me—without me?" she cried. And then she burst out suddenly into bitter weeping, and with Lesley's arms about her she wept away some of the "perilous stuff" of misery which had seemed likely to destroy the balance of her brain. When those tears came her reason was saved, and Lesley was wise enough to be reassured and not alarmed by them.

She was very much exhausted when the burst of tears was over, and Lesley was allowed to feed her with strong soup, which she took submissively from her friend. "You won't go?" she whispered, when the meal was done. And Lesley whispered back: "I will not go, darling, so long as you want me here."

"I want you—always." Then with a gleam of returning strength and memory: "What was it they said about your father?"

Lesley shivered.

"Never mind, Ethel, dear," she said.

"But—I know—I remember. That he was—a—oh, I can't say the word. But that is not true."

"I know it is not true. It is a foolish, cruel mistake."

"It could not be true," Ethel murmured. "He was always kind and good. Tell him—from me—that I don't believe it, Lesley. And don't let them take you away from me."

Holding Lesley's hand in hers, at last she fell asleep; and sleep was the very thing that was likely to restore her. The doctor came and went, forbidding the household to disturb the quiet of the sick-room; and after a time, Lesley, exhausted by the excitements and anxieties of the day, laid her head on the pillow and also slept. It was late in the afternoon when Maurice Kenyon, stealing softly into the room, found the two heads close together on one pillow, the arms interlaced, the slumber of one as deep as of the other. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at the sleeping figures. "Poor girls!" he muttered to himself. "Well for them if they can sleep; but I fear that theirs will be a sad awakening."

Suddenly Lesley opened her eyes. The color rushed to her pale cheeks as she saw who was regarding her, but she had sufficient self-control not to start or move too hastily. Ethel altered her position at that moment, and left Lesley free to rise, then sank back to slumber. And, obeying a silent motion of Maurice Kenyon's hand, Lesley followed him noiselessly into the dressing-room.